


Five times Clint curled up in his blanket and one time he wanted to.

by flashwitch



Series: F**cked Up Routine [7]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Cooks, Clint's blanket, Fluff, Injury, M/M, OCD Verse, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Slash, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashwitch/pseuds/flashwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does what it says on the tin. Clint and his blanket, a love story. Side story in the OCD verse, should be read before the next few chapters of Best Laid Plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Clint and the Blanket found each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the blanket mentioned in Best Laid Plans? I thought I’d mentioned it before in the earlier stories until someone asked me if I had and I went back to check. :/ Not sure what happened there, because it’s such a strong image in my head. So, you get filler story of Clint’s blanket. 5+1, some very short, some ridiculously long. One explicit sex scene.

Clint was thirteen and the corner of his mouth was bleeding. Trickshot didn’t like it when he talked back, but sometimes Clint couldn’t help it. Sometimes his mouth just said stupid things. He snuck into the Big Top after everyone else was asleep and he climbed up to the trapeze platform. It was dark and quiet and he could see everything. He curled up and fell to sleep. He was safe up there.

When he woke up to the hustle and bustle of the circus getting ready for the day ahead, he was warmer than he thought he should be. Usually perching up there for the night meant waking up at three in the morning shivering. He shifted and dislodged the blanket that someone had laid over him during the night. It was an ugly thing, pink and purple, grey and blue, and it smelled of horses but it was soft and warm. He curled it around his shoulders and laid down on his belly so he could look out at everyone without them seeing him.

Miranda, the woman who did tricks with the ponies, looked up at just the right moment and she winked at him. That explained why the blanket smelled of horses. He liked Miranda, she’d always been nice to him and Barney had a bit of a crush on her. Clint climbed down and put the blanket over the door of the horse trailer with a bunch of daisies he’d self-consciously picked from the edge of the field they were staying in.

When he saw her standing on the back of her pony later she had a daisy pinned to her leotard.

That night, when he climbed the to the trapeze stand again, he found the blanket there, neatly folded. There was also a bowl of rich dark stew, thick with meat and potatoes. Stuck to the edge of the bowl was a note.

 _Don’t try and give it back again,_ it said and ended with a smiley face. 

Miranda looked out for him over the next year or so. She taught him how to cook, took him to the library, cleaned his injuries. Clint would curl up in the blanket every single night. Then Miranda was killed. Nobady cared in the town, the police barely even bothered to investigate. She was just a carnie after all. Then all Clint had was the blanket. Every time he saw daisies after that, he thought of her. 


	2. How Coulson met the Blanket.

Agent Barton was late. This was unacceptable. He was supposed to be at the briefing fifteen minutes ago. Coulson sighed and shook his head. He would just have to go and find him. He’d been warned about Barton. About his backtalk (although Coulson thought of it more as witty banter), about his dereliction of orders (he never completely refused an order, but he was smart, and if he saw problems with a plan he’d point them out. Coulson had no problem with this) and about his so called ‘independent streak’ (they all said that Barton would turn on them, that he was a lone wolf, but they obviously didn’t see how desperate he was to belong).

This was the first time Coulson had had cause to wonder if ‘they’ were perhaps right about Barton. He had no reason to be late. No excuse not to call and explain why he wasn’t present. They'd only been working together a few months, but he'd thought Clint was better than that. 

* * *

 

Coulson reached Barton’s quarters and knocked perfunctorily before entering. It was his right as Clint’s handler. The first thing he noticed on entering was the smell, a sick rotten smell, followed by how dark it was. The lights were all off and the blinds were drawn over the small window. He reached out and flicked the switch. There was a moan from the sofa.

Coulson walked over and frowned. Barton was curled up on the couch. He looked awful. He smelled worse. There was a metal trash can in front of him which had stale vomit at the bottom of it. Phil reached out and pressed a hand to Clint’s forehead. He was burning up. Damn.

“Barton, why didn’t you tell anyone you were sick?” Barton didn’t answer. Phil thought for a moment. Barton needed medical attention. He’d make him comfortable and then get one of the SHIELD medics down here. First things first, get the temperature down. Phil grabbed the edge of the ratty blanket Clint had wrapped tightly around him and tugged. Clint made a small sound of distress and tightened his grip on it.

“You’re too hot, let me have it.”

Clint wouldn’t let go.

Fine. If he wanted to be like that...

Coulson reached under Clint and got hold of another edge of the blanket. He rolled it up towards Clint’s hands until he had a long thick roll of blanket for Clint to hold on to. Barton settled down again. He was wearing boxer shorts and a dusky purple t shirt. The bandage wrapped around his leg, a reminder from his last mission, was dirty and smelled bad. Wonderful. He’d gone and gotten himself infected.

“I take it you didn’t take the antibiotics.”

“Allergic, tried to tell them,” Clint replied and Phil looked up, shocked (both at the information and the fact that Clint was awake). “Hey, sir. What are you doing here?”

“You were late to a meeting.”

“Cold.”

“I know. Sorry. You have a fever.” Phil frowned. “What do you mean, you’re allergic to antibiotics? You’ve been on them before.”

“I can’t have penicillin. It’s in my file. It’s supposed to be anyway. This doctor wouldn’t listen.” Coulson watched Clint curl in on himself and press the rolled up blanket to his cheek. He rubbed his face back and forth against it, humming a little.

“Why didn’t you tell someone? Another doctor? Why didn’t you come to me?”

“I tried getting another doctor’s attention. But they were all busy. And I figured it wasn’t a big deal.” He shrugged. “Besides, my last handler said that my medical care was my responsibility.”

“In future, I expect to be kept informed about your health. I will be having words with whoever treated you, and I will make sure that any allergies you have are clearly marked in your file.” Coulson tried his hardest to keep his voice calm and level. He needn’t have bothered, though. Clint had already drifted back to sleep.

* * *

Phil got through to a medic he trusted, and she took a look at Clint. She got him some antibiotics that he wasn’t allergic to and cleaned out the wound. Clint’s penicillin allergy wasn’t marked in his medical file. It _was_ however marked in his standard file. Apparently his previous handler had held more of a grudge than Phil had realised. It wasn’t Barton’s fault the man had proved himself a stupid, abusive asshole and had gotten himself fired.

Phil stayed with Clint until he his fever broke and he was lucid enough to watch his own back. When he started shivering and sweating, Phil had rolled the blanket back down over him. It was soft and well worn, fraying around the edges. It was obviously well loved and was the only personal touch in the whole of his quarters. Barton looked young curled up in it, his hair wet with sweat. He looked comfortable. Phil tucked the blanket tighter around Clint and brushed a hand through his hair.

He was Clint’s handler and he planned on taking care of him. 


	3. Natasha and the Blanket.

 

Budapest had been a shit-storm. It was Clint and Natasha’s third mission together, and everything that could have gone wrong did go wrong. They were made. They were injured. They were captured. There were fire breathing flamingo monsters. The intel was wrong. To put it shortly, it sucked.

Phil had been pissed. Natasha had been worried about that, but Clint had told her he wasn’t mad at them, he was mad at the people who’d screwed this up for them. When they got back to the base, they’d gone to medical, debriefed, and then Clint was pulling her after him. She stumbled along, exhausted, and trusting him to be taking her somewhere she needed to go. They ended up at his quarters. He pushed her down onto the sofa and went over to the kitchen part of the small open plan quarters. The kitchen had an oven, two cupboards, a sink and a fridge/freezer. Her quarters didn’t have a kitchen at all. She didn’t know any other asset of their level who had a private kitchen. He caught her questioning look and correctly interpreted it.

“Phil pulled some strings for me. Well, he says it’s because I was hogging the canteen kitchen and the other assets were getting annoyed.” He smiled. “Hey, you’re good with a knife. Get over here.” She pulled a face. She didn’t want to get up. In fact, she kind of just wanted to curl up and sleep. “Come on, with both of us it’ll be ready quicker.”

Natasha sighed and dragged herself up to her feet. She went over to stand beside Clint and he dropped an apron over her head, and then handed her a knife. He pushed a pile of carrots, potatoes and onions in front of her.

“Dice them up, the onions quite small, but everything else in nice big chunks,” he told her. He put a knob of butter into a large pan and then chopped some beef up. He added it to the pan. They worked in silence. The beef got browned, the onions added along with some garlic. Then a little flour to thicken it. Red wine, beef stock (Clint had a flask of this in his fridge that he’d made at some point from scratch). Carrots and potatoes added last.

 “Is it done?” she asked, leaning over the pot.

“No, it needs to cook down some. Go clean up, I’ll put some bread on.” He pushed her towards the bedroom with its small en suite. She looked down at herself. Her hands were clean, she’d washed them, but her clothes were still stained with mud and blood. Good job Clint had made them both wear aprons.

* * *

She glanced around the bedroom, curious, but there were no personal touches. In fact, the only personal thing she'd seen in the quarters was the blanket folded over the back of the sofa. 

She grabbed some sweats from his drawers, knowing he wouldn’t mind, and took a shower. She came back out clean and damp and warm. Her hair was wet, she was barefoot, no make-up, but she knew Clint wouldn’t care about that.

He was in the kitchen area still, leaning heavily against the wall, his head back and his eyes closed. She dragged her feet on the carpet so he would hear her and he opened his eyes.

“Hey,” he smiled. “Breads in. Keep an eye that the pan doesn’t boil over.” He headed through to the bedroom and Natasha took a seat on the couch. Her arm brushed against an old, threadbare blanket. It felt soft and she was so tired. She pulled it around her and dragged one leg up onto the couch. She fastened her eyes on the pot on the stove and waited for Clint to come back.

He came back, damp and clean, after about twenty minute and when he saw her he froze for a split second, then blinked and shook his head.

“Come on, let’s eat.” He dragged her up off the sofa and pulled her over to the stove, letting the blanket drop back to the sofa. The pan on the stove was bubbling gently away. It smelled great; she leaned over it, taking a deep breath and looking at what they’d made. Some meat, a few veggies, some wine... Together, it all made a rich dark stew, thick with potatoes.

 He poured the stew into two large bowls, stuck them on trays with a fork and a spoon in each. Then he pulled the bread from the oven, almost forgetting the oven gloves until Natasha poked him in the ribs, and tore it in half. He buttered them both a chunk and stuck it on the trays with the bowls. He handed one of the trays to her and headed over to the sofa. He paused for a moment, then shifted the tray to a one handed hold. He grabbed the blanket, shook it out and spread it over the back of the sofa. He sat down, and Natasha followed suit. The blanket shifted with their body weight so that the edges draped down over their shoulders and they were both enclosed in its warmth.

* * *

 

They both ate hungrily, devouring the stew and bread in short measure. They even used the crust of the bread to soak up the dregs.

“That,” Natasha said, speaking for the first time in hours, “was better than sex.” Clint laughed.

“Then you’re not doing it right.”

“Where did you learn to cook?”

“It doesn’t matter.” His laughter faded to a bittersweet smile and Natasha stood and took both the trays and put them on the kitchen counter. When she turned around, Clint had lain down with the blanket pulled across him. She smiled. They’d saved each others’ lives. They’d trained together. Fought together. But this was different. More intimate.

Natasha sat back down on the edge of the sofa and Clint pulled her firmly down onto him, wrapping the blanket over both of them. She froze.

“Hey, nothing like that. Promise.” He shifted so that he was lying against the back of the sofa on his side and she was facing him on the outside edge. This way she could easily get away if she needed to. “I’m tired. You’re tired. We just spent three days in hell, and I just want to curl up and sleep.” She nodded. “But I won’t sleep. Not without someone watching my back.”

“Okay,” she said, because she knew she wouldn’t sleep alone either. “Any reason why we’re in here and not in your bed?”  Clint flushed and his fingers twitched around the blanket edge. “Ah. Aren’t you a bit old to have a blankie?”

“Shut up, it’s warm!”

She smiled and rolled her eyes because it was expected. She knew what it was like to need something real and present to keep you in the moment, to keep you feeling safe. She also knew that while the blanket was for him, the couch was for her, letting her know she was safe with him. Bedrooms have different meanings.

She was grateful, and didn’t tease him. Well, not _too_ much.


	4. When Clint and Phil made good use of the blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one contains explicit oral sex, and genital shaving. I'm never sure about writing sex scenes, so feedback would be good :)
> 
> Thanks to Blessed24 7 for catching an inconsistency.

It was their anniversary. Clint was standing by the stove in Phil’s (their) apartment, making all of Phil’s favourites. Phil was weird about food, so Clint had spent ages learning the different meals he liked and would happily eat. He was cooking a three course meal tonight. His gift to Phil was sitting in the middle of the table. Clint peeled potatoes and frowned. He was thrumming with nervous energy. What if Phil hadn’t remembered? Or what if he didn’t want any sort of celebration? Clint had had a boyfriend once who’d laughed at him when he’d wanted to celebrate their anniversary. _“You’re just a fuck, kid. I’ve got a girlfriend back home. We aren’t in a ‘relationship’.”_

He didn’t think Phil would do that, of course he didn’t. But he was still worried about it.

The apartment was small, but warm. It was decorated in earth tones and was as much about texture as it was about colour. There were thick rugs on the floor and throws and cushions on the couches. It felt like a home and Clint didn’t want to lose that. He wasn’t going to lose it. This was their home, and it was their anniversary not a trial.

* * *

 

The front door opened. A few minutes later, Phil was there, wrapping his arms around Clint, pressing up against his back.

“Hey,”

“Hey.” Clint turned to claim a kiss.

“Happy Anniversary.”

“You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered,” Phil pecked at Clint’s lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

They sat and ate, both finishing everything on their plates (which Clint felt was a real achievement, Phil really was weird about food). Then, gifts. Clint nervously pushed the box across the table towards Phil.

“What’s this?” He smiled.

“It’s a pony. What do you think it is, Phil?”

“Thank you. I’ve always wanted a pony.” Clint laughed at the deadpan expression on Phil’s face. He watched Phil’s hands gently pull away the sellotape. He was one of those people who never ripped open a present. It used to annoy Clint (who was of the fast and messy persuasion), but now he enjoyed watching the process. The paper was peeled back and the box was opened.

“Clint... is this..?”

“The guy who sold it me said it was mint condition.”

“It’s brilliant. Thank you.” Phil stroked the front cover of the comic book through the acetate folder. It was a _Captain America_ comic, the first appearance of Bucky Barnes. He lifted it out of the shallow box carefully. Then he laughed.  Underneath the comic book was a t shirt, one of the ones Stark Industries had rushed out (along with action figures and other merchandise) after Tony had exposed himself as Iron Man.

It said ‘I am Iron Man’ and had a cartoon of the armour on it. It was really cool.

“You like it?”

“You realise I can never wear it? Stark will never let me hear the end of it if I do.” Clint laughed and Phil leaned in and kissed him. “It’s perfect, thank you.” He pulled a box out from under the table and Clint frowned. He’d been home all day, and he could have sworn there was nothing under the table.

“Where did that come from?” he asked, but Phil just smiled.

“Here,” he said. Clint took it and shook it up next to his ear. It was heavy, so he only shook it very gently. Phil rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling, so Clint smiled back. He tore into the paper as though he was in a race to get the thing unwrapped. Inside the paper, there was a box. Inside the box, there were several things. The first thing Clint’s hands fell on was a book. It was information on how different cultures designed and carved their own weapons, from slingshots to longbows.

“Oh wow. This is great,” he beamed.

“Good. I wasn’t sure if you would have read it.”

“I haven’t.”

“Good.”

He put it aside, stroking the cover, and then pulled out the next item. It was a thick hoodie with the Captain America logo on. He raised an eyebrow and looked at Phil. His partner shifted slightly in his seat and his ears turned pink at the tips.

“This is... nice.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“What are you apologising for? I said it was nice.”

“Because I got it for me as much as I did for you.”

“You want to see me wear it?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay. I can do that.” The material was soft and thick, made for comfort rather than looks, but the Shield was huge across the front and the cut of the sweater meant that it would fit quite tightly against his body. He put that aside too.

“There’s one more thing,” Phil said and he looked down at the floor. “I’m not sure if you’d want it. And I’d understand if you don’t. I got it so you could have the choice. They were going to throw it out.”

“Okay, you’re worrying me now.”

“Sorry.”

Clint frowned and reached into the box for a third time. This time he hit a smooth glass surface. He felt around until he got a hold of the edges of a frame. He pulled it out carefully.

It was one of his posters.

An A3 poster in a frame saying _The Amazing Hawkeye_ across the top. There was a picture of him in his embarrassing old uniform.

“This is me.”

“Yes. It is. Like I said, you don’t have to-”

“I love it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. it’s... I have nothing from back then. They just left me behind.” He stroked the face of the kid in the picture, so young, so naive. "Well, except..."

"What?"

"The blanket, but that's Miranda's. It makes me think of her, not them."

“You looked good in that outfit,” Phil said, breaking the moment. Clint laughed.

“You know it!” Phil leaned in across the table and kissed him.

“There’s something else I want to do for you,” Phil said when he pulled away, breathless.

“What?”

“I want to suck you.” Clint’s breath froze in his throat and he looked at Phil, eyes wide.

“You don’t have to,” he said at once. “I don’t want you to if you don’t want to.”

“I want to. I know I haven’t yet... and it is a little outside my comfort zone, so don’t expect it too often. But it is something I want to try.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Phil smiled. “Do you mind if we shower first? And I...” his ears pinked up again. “I’d like to shave you, if that’s okay.”

Clint nodded. He’d done that before. One of his previous boyfriends had insisted on Clint always being clean and hair free. Clint trimmed a little now, but he didn’t normally shave anymore. It was fine. Phil took his hand and pulled him to his feet. He led him to the bathroom.

* * *

 

They kissed, their hands exploring slowly. Clothes were shed, and they pressed up against each other. Clint always found it gratifying how much Phil always wanted this. How eager he always was to touch and kiss and explore. Phil reached out behind him with one hand to turn on the water, and Clint pressed him backwards into the shower.

Phil grabbed the soap and things got slippery fast. There was the smell of coconut and pineapple as they lathered each other up, their mouths almost in constant contact.

After a moment, Phil pulled back.

“Easy,” he said. “Keep this up and we won’t get to the main event.”

“Sorry,” Clint grinned. Phil raised his eyebrow and smirked, then pressed Clint back against the wall. He picked up a disposable razor from a shelf, along with a can of shaving foam. Clint’s eyes slid closed. Those weren’t usually in the shower. Phil had thought about this, he’d prepared for this, he wanted this.

“Logistics,” Phil said, and Clint opened his eyes to see him frowning. “I didn’t realise... Can we move over to the tub? I need you sitting down with your legs apart.”

“Sure.”

They left the shower on, the room filling with steam. Clint sat down in the tub and bent his knees, letting them fall apart to rest against the sides of the bath. Phil positioned himself on his knees between Clint’s legs. They were both hard, and Clint was leaking a little. Phil smeared the precum with his thumb, then spread the shaving foam liberally around Clint’s groin. He lifted Clint’s cock and balls out of the way.

“Hold yourself here,” he said, and Clint reached down and took hold of himself. “Good.”

Phil started shaving. He began down between Clint’s legs and moved up slowly. His expression was one of intense concentration, and having that sort of focus on him made Clint’s head spin. Phil was so slow and careful, not wanting to hurt him, and Clint was getting more and more desperate with every stroke of the razor. He felt loose and spacey and it was great.

Then it was done, just in time and much too soon. Clint was so hard he could hammer nails, and he said as much, making Phil snort and smile at him.

“Come on, let’s rinse you off.” They made their way over to the shower, Phil supporting Clint until he pressed him up against the wall of the shower. Phil grabbed the soap and gave Clint a more thorough wash than he had earlier, focusing on Clint’s genitals. Clint screwed his eyes shut and clenched his hands, pressing back against the wall. He used every trick he had not to cum right then. He really wanted to feel Phil’s mouth on him.

The water stopped suddenly, and Phil’s hand was around his wrist.

“Come on, dry off.” They stepped out and Phil pressed a towel into his hand. they both dried themselves off as quickly as possible. Clint glanced at Phil, and the fire he saw in his expression made it necessary for him to kiss him, hard. Phil pulled back, and smiled, stroking a hand down Clint’s cheek. “Easy. Finish drying and give me a minute, then come on through. I’ll be in the lounge.” Phil pecked at the corner of Clint’s mouth quickly, then let his towel drop as he left the room.

Clint took a deep breath and let it out slowly. God he loved that man. He scrubbed the towel against his hair again, and then dropped it into the wash bin. He grabbed Phil’s from the floor and dropped it in there as well, knowing it would bother Phil otherwise. He also rinsed the shaving foam from the bottom of the tub and threw out the now blunt razor. It gave him the chance to calm down a little. He wasn’t really bothered about the mess, but Phil could sometimes be kind of a neat freak. Nothing too bad, but he’d insist on cleaning up the bathroom later if Clint just left it.

* * *

 

He thought enough time had probably passed, so he went out to the living room. There were candles everywhere, and the gas fire was on, flickering prettily. Phil was kneeling beside it, fussing with the settings. He obviously heard Clint come in, because he turned and smiled.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Clint walked over, and knelt down beside Phil. Laid out on the floor was Clint’s old blanket, it was soft against his knees. It felt vaguely sacrilegious to have sex on the blanket he’d had since he was thirteen, but it was soft and easily cleaned.

“I think it would be easiest if you lie down,” Phil said, looking at the fire instead of Clint. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Lying down is fine,” Clint told him and moved so he was lying on his back. He stretched, arching his back and reaching his hands up over his head. The floor was hard, but the blanket felt good against his skin. Clint could be a bit of a sensualist.  

“I...” Phil looked lost for a second, looking at the expanse of Clint’s skin. “If I do something you don’t like, or if it’s just not good, I need you to tell me. I did some research, but...”

“Wait,” he lifted himself up on his elbow. “You’ve never done this before. Ever?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh.” Clint wasn’t sure what to do with that. On the one hand, it was hot. On the other, he didn’t want to push Phil into something he wasn’t comfortable with. “You don’t have to do this.”

“It was my idea. I want to.”

“Okay.” Clint lay back, shifting against the blanket, but he was tense now.

“Stop that,” Phil frowned, exasperated. “If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t.” He pressed Clint’s legs apart and settled between them, then leaned along Clint’s body to kiss him and as he pulled back he stroked a hand through Clint’s hair. Just like that, the tension fell away. Phil was here and happy, and in control. Clint could relax and let it happen. “Good,” Phil said.

Phil moved down Clint’s body, kissing and licking as he went. When he got down to Clint’s cock, he stopped and just looked at it for a long moment, then he slid back the foreskin, slick with pre-cum. He leaned down and licked at the head experimentally. It was a strange taste, salty and bitter, but not altogether unpleasant. Besides, it was Clint. He slowly took Clint’s cock into his mouth suckling gently and licking. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he listened and catalogued all of Clint’s responses so he could learn what was good and what was not. His fingers caressed Clint’s balls and explored further down as he pushed himself, taking more into his mouth. He spluttered and pulled off when it hit the back of his throat. It was an entirely unpleasant sensation.

“You okay?” Clint had the presence of mind to ask.

“Yeah,” Phil replied, a little ruefully, and then turned back to the task at hand. He sucked and licked and bobbed his head up and down, and he could tell Clint was getting closer. The idea of swallowing was just too much for him. He pulled off and immediately spat (Clint hadn't cum yet, it was just the idea of it) into a tissue from the travel pack he’d positioned strategically beside the blanket (along with lube and condoms).

“Sorry,” Clint babbled, even as Phil finished him with one hand. Phil wasn't sure he knew what he was apologising for. 

“It’s okay,” Phil didn’t mind. It was Clint.

“You want a hand with that,” Clint asked, gesturing to Phil’s groin. Phil knew Clint would be more than happy to return the favour. Phil didn’t entirely understand it but Clint really liked giving head.

“No, I’d rather save it.” He pulled Clint up and moved them so they were sitting with their backs against the couch, pulling the blanket up around them. “It doesn’t take you that long to get it up again.”

“Ah, okay.” Phil had always had a longer recovery time than Clint, it had caused some embarrassment when they’d first got together. And Clint was always happy for another round, but right now he was content just to snuggle with Phil in the softness of his blanket. The familiar warmth of the blanket and the smell and feel of Phil wrapped around him meant home to Clint, and he was as happy as he had ever been.

 

 

 

 


	5. When Clint was left with just the blanket.

Phil was dead. Phil was _dead._

Clint was curled up under the bed. He had the duvet and pillows down there to lie on, and his blanket was pulled over him. He was curled up as small as he could, and the blanket covered his entire body. He could still hear Loki in his head, and Phil was dead. He was never coming back. He was lying under the bed that he and Phil shared and he was alone. He rubbed the blanket against his cheeks, soaking up the tears that fell without his permission. It smelled of Phil.

Phil was gone and he was never coming back. Clint was alone, truly alone, for the first time in nearly ten years. They’d been together for almost three years and Clint had been planning a vacation for their next anniversary. They were never going to go to the cabin in the mountains. They were never going to go fishing and hunting and cuddle by the log burning fire when it got cold.

They were never going to do any of that because Phil was dead and Clint was left with nothing.


	6. +1 When Clint he wished he had his blanket.

The floor was cold. He could feel it seeping into his bones. _He_ was cold. After the rush of icy water, he hadn’t been able to get warm. There was a towel draped over him and he wrapped it tighter around him, rubbing his cheek against it. he closed his eyes and let himself drift.

He pretended he wasn’t in the cage. He wasn’t in some maniacs basement. He wasn’t alone in the cold. He pretended he was wrapped up in his blanket, and Phil was rubbing his back. He pretended he’d just got in from a mission in the snow and Phil was wrapped around him, trying to get him warm again.

Then he opened his eyes and it was worse. He felt colder and more alone than ever. He ached.

The towel was rough on his skin, and the little warmth he offered was worthless. He pulled himself into a ball as tight as he could. Curled up like that, the towel covered almost all of him. He screwed his eyes shut. He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t. Because Coulson was coming for him and he was going to take him home. They would put the fire on, wrap up in the blanket, and Clint would cook his comfort food (beef stew). They would eat it together while Phil caught up on _Supernanny_ , and everything would be okay.

It had to be okay. Coulson was coming for him. He was. Clint wouldn’t be alone for long. Coulson had come back from the dead for him. A little kidnapping and torture wouldn’t stop Coulson from coming for him and getting him back. Phil was too good for that; he was Phil Fucking Coulson, he’d once followed a maniac across the desert and over the mountains to rescue the dog he was abusing (also to arrest him for trafficking a new psychoactive drug that caused people to become temporarily psychic, but mainly to save the puppy). And that was just for a dog. Phil loved him. He was coming. He had to be. 


End file.
